Narrator's POV:

The autumn is beautiful in Gwangju. Valleys in which the rice fields inhabit blossom with abundance. They - the grains - appear in long panicles on the top of the plant, curling to the sides, swelling from the weight nearby the cascading waters of the nearby rivers. The aroma of flowers fills the air, wafting down into the city streets awhile away.

The city center is awash with these flowers, picked at their prime and sold at the markets. And the petals drop in swirls of blues and pink, carpeting the streets in the middle with their beauty. The birds sing with glorious melodies; tunes of might and progress sweep the city.

Giant conglomerates are satisfied. And the dictatorship is satisfied. Their appetite is fulfilled. For the profits roll into the chaebols, for the power rolls into the regime. And the petals of their progress drape the city, skies cast in hues of red and purple: of strength and opulence.

Yet away from the glorious center, away from the modern televisions, the washers, the dryers, the BMW's and Mercedes, the aroma of flowers in absent. The people work their lives away, in silent compliance. They have gained much, they have come far. The past was worse they are told, the future will be brighter. A future with Park is a future for all. And they bow their heads and listen, following.

All the while the manacles on their arms tighten. For the people are binded. A head raised will be a head crushed. An opinion expressed is an opinion silenced. And a whisper of dissent becomes a whisper of death. This is the Park regime.

Enclosed limousines stroll by, watching, observing. They are a symbol of said progress. The birds follow them with song. Sirs and missus who occupy the vehicle never set foot out into the outside habitat. Into the world of the people. Preferring to remain inside, they tap on their window, admiring their creation, their progress.

And the people scurry, come marching soldiers arm and arm with limos. And the people bow low, not daring to look up.

One man once said it was inequality among the classes, and one man once ended tortured by knives. For the smell of flowers does not waft here, nor does the trickling of a stream sound. For the people are in manacles, and the birds fall silent.